“I will make sure it is done. Shall I inform the king’s advisors as well?” he inquired. I nodded again, resisting the helplessness that rose like smoke from my chest. Tiras had been so desperate to prepare me to be queen, but I was not equipped for this.
When the guard left the library, Lady Firi pulled up a chair and sat across the desk from me, her movements brisk, her tone measured.
“The lords will come to Jeru City, Majesty,” Lady Firi warned. “They will seek to have you set aside. They will declare you unfit. You must consider how to proceed.”
I had no immediate response, and she stared at me with guarded eyes, waiting. Knowing. My heart was a great mass of Jeruvian ore, black and solid, and so heavy my shoulders wanted to buckle, and my body wanted to slump, letting the weight of the rock pull me face first into the floor.
Kjell.
It was all I could think of, but Lady Firi nodded.
“The Lords may wait for the king to be laid to rest. But if the battle in Firi continues and Kjell is unable to accompany the king’s body back to Jeru City, the funeral must take place without Kjell. There are precedents and rituals that must be followed.”
There wouldn’t be a body. Tiras was gone, but he wasn’t dead. I had to believe that.
And if he doesn’t . . . return?
Lady Firi eyed me sharply. “Kjell?”
I hadn’t been talking about Kjell, but I nodded anyway, her suggestion turning my stony heart to molten fear. What if neither of them returned?
“Then you will have some decisions to make. Do you want to be queen?” she asked softly. “You are carrying the heir, but . . . perhaps the wisest thing to do is to let the lords have their way.”
And what might that be? What do the lords want?
“Control. Power.” She shrugged. “And Tiras has not been especially malleable.”
If I am found unfit . . . who will replace me?
“The council might name your father regent. You would still be queen, but he would be the true ruler. Your child would still be heir when it comes of age. If it lives that long. Of course, you could take another husband . . . someone who could provide a buffer and a . . . voice.” She spoke gently, but I heard a whisper of mockery, of doubt, escape her thoughts. I didn’t know if the scorn was aimed at me or at the constraints placed on all women in Jeru.
What would you do, Lady Firi?
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Me?” She laughed and shook her head, but her eyes gleamed, and her mouth tightened briefly. When her eyes met mine again, they were flat and hard.
“I would resist them. Wait. Stall. And when the time is right . . . make your move.”
When the trumpets sounded at sundown, I returned to my chambers and huddled in the king’s wardrobe, pulling his clothes around me, drawing his scent into my lungs and holding him there. But the words still found me, and for two hours the royal crier threw his announcement into the sky, declaring the king’s death to the citizens of Jeru.
“His Majesty, King Tiras of Jeru and Lord of Degn, is dead. King Tiras was mighty in battle and strong in both spirit and body. He was righteous and just. Jeru weeps and Degn mourns. Our lady queen has declared Penthos upon the city for seven days. In this time of mourning, there will be silence on the streets of Jeru. Citizens will return to your homes each day at sundown and there remain until sunrise,” the crier bellowed. “On the seventh day, the king will be raised up, that all may publicly mourn his passing. May the God of Words and Creation welcome his soul and protect our lands.”
As my father’s keep in Corvyn was the closest lordship to Jeru City, he was the first lord to arrive at the castle. I received him in the library, poised, expressionless, and filled with dread. He strode in, cape flying, hands wringing, eyes conspiring. He didn’t sit in the chair across the desk but waited for my guard to step outside and close the heavy door. I didn’t fear for myself in my father’s presence. My mother had given me that much.
“They will seek to kill you, Daughter,” he said without preamble. He didn’t specify who “they” were, but I knew. I indicated the chair with an open palm and waited until he tossed himself into it with restless elegance, sweeping his cape to the side so he wouldn’t wrinkle it.
I knew he couldn’t hear my voice, so I made no attempt to speak. Instead I scratched out a primitive message and placed it in front of him. It was odd to be communicating at all. He had always treated me like an ugly but priceless heirloom—something to be kept, preserved, and hidden in a corner.
I die, you die.
He read it and pushed it aside. “The council does not know. They are disdainful of the Gifted. They would not believe Meshara’s prophecy, and if they did believe, the knowledge may not deter them.”
I despised my weakness in writing, my childish letters and my simple words, but it was all I had. I used the paper once more.
I am with child.
He stared at me with growing horror. “All the more reason for them to kill you,” he gasped. His thoughts screamed, “Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl.”
Kjell of Jeru, the king’s brother, is next in line for the throne, I wrote, my hand shaking, my eyes burning. It took me so long to form the sentence that my father grew impatient and yanked the paper from beneath the quill the moment I finished.
He read my words and scoffed. “I know nothing of this.”
I took out a new piece of parchment and formed a response.
The king acknowledged him.
My father’s jaw dropped, and for a moment he was silent, words snapping around him like sparks before he ran a thin hand over his face and slumped in his chair.
“The council will be livid.”
I pulled the parchment close and painstakingly summarized the situation. I die, my child dies. I die, you die. I die, Kjell is king.
My father was quick to come to his conclusion. “You must make me regent, Daughter. The lords will agree. You will be safe. Your child will be safe.”
I studied him quietly, my eyes on his, my mind full of questions, full of words it would take me a lifetime to write. I thought about Corvyn and the forests I’d grown up in. I could go back. I could raise my child. I could give up all claim to the throne. I had no desire to rule, and without desire there was only . . . duty. I closed my eyes and dropped my chin to my chest. Then I dipped my quill and wrote out my simple confession.
I never wanted to be queen.
My father read my sentence and smiled at me. It beamed from his face, transforming him.
It was the only time he’d ever smiled at me.
“Then it’s settled. When the lords arrive, we will tell them what’s been decided,” he said.
I shook my head slowly. No.
The smile faded from my father’s face, and disappointment carved new lines around his mouth.
“There is no other course, Daughter.”
The king chose me.
My father yanked the paper from beneath my quill and ripped it down the center. “He did not choose you! He wanted your gift. He wanted your power. He used you!” my father spit out, leaning across the desk so I could see the charcoal flecks in his pale grey eyes.
My breath stilled, my heart stopped, and I could not look away from him. He didn’t retreat, but stayed crouched over the desk, his face almost touching mine.
“You don’t think I know what you can do?” my father whispered, the sound grating and harsh, sand against stone. “You are like your mother . . . but a thousand times worse! You killed her, and you sentenced me to a lifetime of fear.”
I rose on trembling legs.
Crown that sits beside my bed, find your way onto my head.
Within seconds the crown I rarely wore winged its way through the balcony doors of my chamber, over the courtyard, and through the library window. It hovered above me and descended with careful precision over my coiled braids. It was the only response I could think of that didn’t require a single word.
My father cursed and s
tepped back.
“You . . . are a . . . child. A mute! You cannot rule Jeru. The lords will destroy you!” He’d given up whispering, and there was desperation in his voice. For a moment I let myself believe that his desperation was for me.
“If I could, I would kill you myself,” he hissed, and the moment of hope was dashed.
With a quick flick of my words, the stiff-backed armchair he’d risen from scooped him off his feet and rose swiftly into the air. He cried out and tried to jump free, only to have the chair rear back like a wild stallion and race toward the library doors. They opened at my command.
I cannot speak, I cannot shout,
But I can still make you get out.
I instructed the chair to upend. I heard a bang and a crash, and the chair returned, empty. With a clap of my hands and a sharp spell, I slammed the doors shut and locked them.
I heard Boojohni sniffing beyond the library doors and disengaged the lock with a weary word so he could enter.
“Bird?” he whispered from the doorway of the empty room.
I’m here, Boojohni.
“Where?”
Under the desk.
He didn’t ask why I was hiding. He just shut the library door softly, trundled over, and peered around the chair I’d moved in front of the opening. He was small enough he only had to tip his head. He pulled the chair away and crawled in beside me, patting my upraised knees.
“Ye’ve been cryin’. . . I’m glad. Grief is good. Ye can’t heal if ye don’t grieve.”
My father is here.
“I know,” he sighed.
I hate him.
“Ye can’t heal if ye hate, either. So let him go, little Lark,” Boojohni said, wiping at my tears with stubby fingers. I let him, needing to feel protected. In truth, I felt more vulnerable than I’d ever been in my whole life.
The lords are coming.
“Aye.”
My father knows what I can do. Only his fear for himself has kept him quiet, but he’s desperate. If he thinks he can expose me and have me removed from power without getting us both killed, he will. If he tells Lord Bin Dar or Lord Gaul, they will take the throne and the Gifted in Jeru will be rooted out and destroyed.
“Those who persecute the hardest usually have the most to hide,” Boojohni said, and we sat in troubled contemplation, resisting the responsibilities being foisted upon us. But hiding for very long was impossible, and it just stoked my apprehension.
I could go to Nivea before the lords arrive and warn them. I’m certain they’ve heard of the king’s . . . death.
Boojohni was shaking his head before I even finished speaking.
“No, Bird. Leaving the city right now would be almost impossible. The castle is filled with eyes, and everyone has a hidden agenda. I will find a way to warn the Healer; she will warn the rest.”
I’m afraid, Boojohni. I can’t fight the whole world by myself.
My dread grew with the admission, and Boojohni reached for my hand, taking it in both of his. After a long silence he spoke, his voice troubled.
“Ye need to get word to Kjell. Something’s amiss, Bird. It’s all happened too quickly.”
Tiras told me he wasn’t coming back. He told me it had to end.
“Aye,” Boojohni repeated. “But not like this. Not with you alone in Jeru City and Kjell and the army in Firi. It doesn’t make sense.”
My feelings of abandonment had been overwhelmed by my sorrow, and I hadn’t been able to separate one from the other. Boojohni’s suspicion made me pause, and all at once, my fear became terror.
It only made sense if something had actually happened to the king.
A solution came to me as I lay in the darkness, my eyes riveted beyond the balcony doors to the low wall where Tiras had perched and left me things—little gifts that let me know he was nearby, messages from a king.
I shot up in bed.
Birds delivered messages.
I threw off my covers, pulled on my cloak and my thin slippers, and stole down the hallways, dropping spells of distraction and diversion to clear my way through the castle and across the middle and upper baileys. I didn’t worry about being seen. I worried about being followed.
The mews were hushed and dim, the birds resting like pampered princesses on their little roosts. I took one step, then another, hoping Hashim hadn’t gone to his quarters for the night. Then I heard him descending the stairs from the pigeon coops above, and I tensed, awkward and second-guessing my decision.
He jumped a foot in the air when he saw me.
“My queen!” His eyes shot to the rafters, checking for winged strangers. “What . . . are . . .” He caught himself. “How can I be of service?”
I took a deep breath.
Can you hear me, Hashim?
His face was perfectly placid, but his eyes flared imperceptibly. Triumph flooded my chest.
I need your help. I don’t know where else to turn.
“Majesty?” he squeaked, his voice so tentative I flinched at the position I was putting him in.
I nodded somberly. Yes, Hashim.
He took several steps closer, his mouth quivering, his eyes glistening with awe.
“Yes, I can . . . hear you. How can I help you, my queen?” he whispered. I extended my hand, and he took it without hesitation. The nerves in my belly eased slightly. I did not scare him. I’d simply surprised him.
I need to get an urgent message to the captain of the guard. Can you send a carrier bird to Firi?
“Yes, Majesty. But the birds can only fly to and from a set location,” Hashim began, hesitant. “If the king’s army is camped beyond Firi, and the city is under attack, my birds may reach the mews in Firi, but the message may not be relayed to the captain for some time, if at all.”
My heart sank, and I dropped my eyes and released Hashim’s hand.
“What is the message, my queen?” he pressed gently.
I need to know from the captain himself if the king is dead.
Hashim’s face brightened. “Is there reason to hope he is not?” he asked.
There is reason to hope and reason to fear. But the captain needs to know what is happening in Jeru. The lords will seize the throne.
“I will go myself, Majesty. I will find the captain.”
My jaw dropped. But . . . it will take several days each way on horseback, and it will be dangerous. You are needed here.
His gaze was steady. Trusting. “It will not take me that long, my queen. And the mews will be in good hands. I have apprentices, and they are very able. I will go and be back in three days.”
I don’t understand.
“The king and I . . . we are the same,” he whispered. “I will . . . fly . . . to Firi.”
One by one the lords arrived, accompanied by small armies from every province, as if the king’s death meant war. They commandeered wings of the castle and set up council in the Great Hall. I was commanded to attend then summarily ignored as the lords from Bin Dar, Gaul, and Bilwick raged and quarreled with the lords from Quondoon, Enoch and Janda. Lady Firi watched it all with narrowed eyes and folded hands, and I wondered if she wasn’t taking her own advice, waiting until the time was right to make her move.
Tiras’s acknowledgment of Kjell had enraged them all, including the ambivalent southern lords, but the king’s advisors were quick to quote precedence and Jeruvian law. My father then proposed that the council appoint a regent and suggested, as father of the queen, that he be chosen. The king’s advisors looked to each other nervously, well-aware that Tiras did not want Lord Corvyn on the throne under any circumstances.
“Has the queen requested a regent, Lord Corvyn?” Lady Firi asked mildly, drawing the attention of all seven of the bickering lords.
“The queen’s wishes cannot be considered. She is unable to communicate and is therefore unfit to reign,” my father retorted.
“That has not been established, Corvyn,” Lord Janda boomed, and Lord Enoch, a cousin of my mother, concurred.
Then the arguing began again, tempers rising, opinions swirling, and no one attempted to consult me at all.
I took out my book of accounts and turned to a blank page. Very carefully, I composed a statement for the council, for my father, and for those who had any question about my willingness or ability to rule. I dusted it with sand as the men rambled, let it dry as the men aired out all their grievances, and when I finally stood, the lords rose as well, but their conversation barely stuttered and their eyes never left each other.
I walked to Lady Firi’s side and extended the document I had painstakingly created.
Will you read this, please? I asked her. Her brows rose in surprise, but she immediately stood, taking it from my hands, then waited for me to return to my position at the table.
“The queen has prepared a statement and has asked me to read it to the council,” Lady Firi projected her voice above the fray.
I waited until I had their suspicious attention and inclined my head, asking Lady Firi to begin.
“I am Lark of Corvyn, now of Degn. I was crowned Queen of Jeru in the presence of this assembly. I am a daughter of Jeru and of noble birth. I am sound of mind and body, and I carry the heir to Jeru’s throne. I cannot speak, but I am able to read and write and communicate my wishes and instructions. My loyalty is to Jeru and to the late king. It was his wish that I reign. If a regent is to be appointed to assist me in matters of war and state, I would ask that Kjell of Degn, the king’s brother, be appointed consort until the royal heir is of age.”
My statement was met with silence and sidelong glances. Lady Firi had not raised her eyes from the parchment, and her stillness caused a pang of apprehension to curl in my belly. I needed one ally, one person with whom I could confer.
“I wonder . . . does the Lady Queen know the laws concerning the Gifted?” Lord Bin Dar queried. The sinister slide of his voice broke the silence. I was still standing, but I met his gaze, acknowledging him.
He continued easily. “I have eyes in Jeru City. Sources. Concerned citizens. There are rumors that our queen has been consorting with a Healer. Our late king refused to fully prosecute the Gifted. He has been lax in his duties and sadly, he has lost his life battling the Volgar, the very beasts his leniency created. Jeru is at war. We must destroy the Gifted, or they will destroy us.”